


Hope in the Form of One Small Bee

by expectingtofly



Series: SPN Stay At Home Challenge [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: #SpnStayAtHome | SPN Stay at Home Challenge, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angel Wings, Angst, Canon Universe, Castiel and Dean Winchester in Love, Castiel's Loss of Angelic Grace (Supernatural), Depressed Castiel (Supernatural), Fluff, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Protective Dean Winchester, Season/Series 09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:34:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24355900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/expectingtofly/pseuds/expectingtofly
Summary: The angels have fallen, Heaven is broken, Castiel burns through a grace that isn't his own. Everything seems hopeless, but Dean is determined to help his homesick, heartbroken angel and give him a home on Earth.Week 8 of the SPN Stay At Home Challenge. Prompt: Hope
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: SPN Stay At Home Challenge [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1749871
Comments: 16
Kudos: 96





	Hope in the Form of One Small Bee

Dean is worried about Castiel. The angel has been holed up for days in the room he and Dean share in the bunker, hardly speaking, hardly moving. Dean knows a thing or two about hiding away in his room, but in those hopeless days he distracted himself with music, with drinking, with crap TV and horror flicks. Castiel lies on their bed in silence, curled up in one of Dean’s old T-shirts, and the sight makes Dean want to crumple.

Sam says, _talk to him,_ but Dean isn’t good with words, he knows that. So he invites Castiel on a drive. He even offers to let Castiel get behind the wheel, but Castiel only shakes his head and sinks in on the passenger side. They drive with the windows down, fast, because Dean hopes Castiel might find some resemblance in it to flying. But Castiel’s shoulders stay slumped as he stares out the window, and when they return to the bunker he retreats to their room without a word.

Sam says, _give him time,_ but Dean is worried, scared, and that makes every quiet day stretch on interminably. He finds himself spending hours in the library, staying behind when Sam goes on errands and cases because, if Castiel does leave their bedroom, Dean doesn’t want him coming out to an empty bunker. Seated in one of the library’s leather armchairs, Dean reads more than he has in years, pores over dusty, thick volumes on angels: their wings, their powers, their grace. None cover how to help a homesick angel. 

Even though he knows angels don’t eat, he feels compelled to bring Castiel food, hopes a familiar meal might spark a happy memory. Castiel takes the peanut butter and jelly sandwich Dean offers him, but when Dean returns an hour later, there’s only one bite missing and Castiel says, _thank you, but it doesn’t taste like anything._

Sam says, _it can’t be easy, losing his home, his family. Using a grace that isn’t his own. Being an angel among humans._ Every night, Dean sinks under the covers, wraps his arms around Castiel and holds him close. Sometimes Castiel nestles up against him and Dean believes his angel will become his old self again, and sometimes Castiel doesn't move, as if Dean isn’t there, and Dean feels hollow inside. 

When he whispers, _I love you,_ and presses a kiss to Castiel’s forehead, Castiel whispers, very softly, _I love you too_ , and Dean hopes it means he hasn’t failed this angel who he loves, but doesn’t know how to help. Castiel never cries. That’s an answer Dean can’t find in any of his books: _Do angels cry?_

It’s when Dean is on an errand, Sam convincing him to leave the bunker for the first time in days, that he realizes it. He stares at a stuffed crochet bee—yellow and black stripes, two antennas, small black eyes, white wings, thin line of a smile (one stitch out of place but it adds personality)—and realizes Castiel doesn’t have any belongings. Even his clothes, the suit and trench coat, are originally another’s.

_This reminded me of you_ , he tells Castiel and feels silly holding out such a trivial thing, offering a stuffed animal to an Angel of the Lord. But Castiel takes the bee from him and gazes at it. _This is for me?_ he asks, tracing the bee’s smile. _It’s yours,_ Dean says.

Castiel looks up at him with a small smile of his own that creates a flutter of hope inside Dean. _Thank you._

This, at least, is something Dean knows he can do—give Castiel things, material things he can hold in his hands, that will ground him to Earth. He buys Castiel a fluffy, blue blanket—its color the closest approximation to Castiel’s eyes he can find—cotton shirts with pockets and stripes, a yellow bath towel. He places books on the nightstands in their room: westerns with amber and rust covers, a children’s book about a boy and his dog which he thinks Castiel will appreciate because the dog is named Sam. A small plant sitting in a teal pot, its curling green leaves tinged yellow down the center. A mug which says, _Morning, Handsome,_ and which he tries to hide from Sam when he makes tea for Castiel every morning and night (because even if Castiel can’t savor the taste, seeing him sit up to hold the mug and breathe in the steam, drink in the warm liquid, gives Dean a similar warmth inside).

_They’re yours_ , Dean says, repeats. _All yours_. He hopes it is enough.

Castiel takes every item in his hands when Dean returns from long shopping trips, turns them over and studies them. In the days that follow, Dean finds him bent over his books, turning the pages slowly, sees him returning from a shower wrapped in his yellow towel. In the morning, Dean wakes as Castiel rises to water his plant and trace its leaves with his finger. The stuffed bee takes up permanent residence on their bed and Dean pretends to grumble— _You’ve left me for him._ Castiel hugs his bee defensively and Dean can’t help but smile.

Castiel wears his new shirts— _they are very soft_ —and sits on the floor in the laundry room, reading, waiting for his clothes to emerge clean and warm. Sometimes, Dean catches Castiel watching through the dryer’s glass door as his stuffed bee tumbles inside in a rough imitation of a bumblebee’s corkscrew flight. Castiel’s quiet listlessness, the droop of his shoulders as he pulls his bee out and holds it against his chest, fills Dean with an anxious doubt. How can warm cotton and yarn ever replace the light and warmth of Heaven that Castiel sunned under for millennia?

_His name is Buzziel,_ Castiel says one night as Dean pushes the bee aside to take his angel in his arms. Dean hugs both Castiel and this strangely named bee. _Buzziel?_ he asks, stressing the -iel. _Is he an angel bee?_

Castiel nods and Dean watches him run his finger along Buzziel’s wings. And Dean realizes that no matter what he buys Castiel, an angel will always miss Heaven.

_I’m sorry, Cas._ Castiel doesn’t speak and Dean learns angels do cry. 

Sam shows Castiel a video of Marie Kondo and the earth-bound angel spends hours folding his new clothes into neat bundles and organizing them in his new dresser. He frowns down at his plant, at its wilting leaves turning brown at the edges. _If I had my grace I could heal you._ Dean introduces Castiel to nature documentaries and they watch for hours and hours. Most shows are slow and plodding, but Dean finds comfort in the weight of Castiel leaning against him, the way Castiel holds Buzziel on his lap, his rapt focus. 

They watch a documentary on beekeeping and Dean points to a bee seated on a purple flower. _There’s Buzziel._ Castiel smiles so he starts naming every bee on the screen, _Samiel, Bobbiel, Jodiel,_ hoping to keep Castiel’s smile on his face for a little longer. He feels the hollow space in his chest filling with something like hope, something he doesn’t want to acknowledge for fear it will disappear and leave him emptier than ever before.

When he wakes one morning, it seems his fears are realized because the space next to him is empty, save for Buzziel staring at him with his crooked smile. 

He and Sam search the bunker and just when he grabs the keys for Baby to search outside, the bunker door creaks open and Castiel walks down the stairs. There’s dirt on his bare feet and he’s holding his plant. _She needed sunshine._

Dean breathes a sigh of relief, pulls Castiel close, hears the crinkle of leaves. _I thought you left._ He holds Castiel at arm’s length to look in his eyes. _I know this isn’t Heaven. But I’ll buy you anything you want. Anything to make this feel like home._

Castiel stares back at him, his eyes serious, his hands around his potted plant. _Heaven isn’t my home anymore. My home is here with you,_ he looks over Dean’s shoulder at Sam, _and you._

_And Buzziel,_ Dean says. Castiel smiles. _And Buzziel._ A relief Dean hadn’t dared hope for fills the bleakness inside him and he pulls Castiel close, feels the warmth of the sun on Castiel’s clothes, his bare arms and dark hair, a reassurance that Castiel will be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, I'd love to hear your thoughts :) thank you for reading!
> 
> check out [my tumblr here](https://expectingtofly.tumblr.com/). I love to talk!


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